


"Cry Havoc!"

by hart_and_sole



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 22:56:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hart_and_sole/pseuds/hart_and_sole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where some people are born with the Lycanthropy gene, Jackson has spent his whole life trying to live up to his family's expectations. To him, that's always meant gaining a Distinction and enlisting in the military with the signing bonus that comes with that honour. He's right on track to achieving his goal, until a student from the 'mundane' school suddenly manifests, throwing a wrench into his plans.</p><p>Meanwhile, Scott's whole world has been thrown into chaos. He's just trying to get by - the last thing he wants is to be forced into a life in the military. With the current conscription laws being what they are, he may not get a choice in the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU. Warning for talk of dissection

Jackson was listening with half an ear to their guest teacher as he waited for Danny to cut into their dissection subject. His friend took a deep breath and inched his knife forward, as cautious as if it was going to jump up and bite him at any moment.  
  
Jackson snorted. “I’ll do it, if you’re too chicken.” Dickish, maybe, but he was sincere. Danny did look decidedly green around the gills.  
  
“Fuck you,” Danny said mildly, used to Jackson’s less than sensitive approach to encouragement, and finally cut into the eyeball, just to prove he could. It was the squishing noise that did it. “Oh, Jesus. I’m gonna hurl…”  
  
Jackson shook his head as Danny ran for the bathroom. How the hell that guy ever hoped to make it to the recruitment stage was beyond him.  
  
Dr. Deaton looked up from his own subject, knife in hand, and shook his head, doing his best to hide a smile. “There’s always one. Now, back to the Tapetum Lucidum. It’s important to understand how your own eyes work, gentlemen, so if you’d just check your diagram for reference…”  
  
There was more, but Jackson tuned the rest out. It wasn’t like he hadn’t already read up on all this before. He focused his senses in on the courtyard outside instead, where Derek Hale was currently bidding a small handful of ‘gifted’ students to sit on the grass. Seventh graders, most likely, if the specialised ear-buds and overwhelmed expressions most of them wore were any indicator. He smiled. He couldn’t remember ever being that young; that new to everything. Those kids were in for a tough couple of years, as their senses developed and settled.  
  
He could hear the tiny ‘tch’ in Dr. Deaton’s throat as he geared up to snap Jackson back to attention, and he turned back to his dissection before the lecture could come. He gave his most innocent expression, as if to say, ‘See? Back to work.’ He raised his scalpel again.  
  
A scream split the air, and Jackson almost dropped his knife. Around him, several of his classmates winced. Again. A long, loud cry of utter agony. Jackson’s ears, fine tuned from years of honing his already superior senses to perfection, focused in on the sound. It was coming from the other building.  
  
Naturally, they all abandoned their work to go crowd round the window, trying to peek across the courtyard at Beacon Hills High School. A few sighed in disappointment. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t happening in front of a window, and no one was coming outside. The screaming seemed to have stopped.  
  
Jackson snorted, and closed his eyes. He slowed his breathing, finding his focus, and retrained his ears to fix in on the source. A measly wall wasn’t enough to stop him. There was a hell of a commotion over there, and if he could just get past it -  
  
Dr. Deaton clapped his hands, snapping Jackson out of his hyperfocus with a wince. “Kids. If we’re done rubbernecking, I have a class to teach.”  
  
The lesson continued, but Jackson didn’t miss the way Deaton kept looking down at the cell phone in his hand, and the worried expression on his face when he did.  
  
Danny came back in after a while, and sat down on the lab stool next to Jackson. “What the hell’s happening over there?” Jackson murmured to him in the barest whisper.  
  
“Fucked if I know,” Danny whispered back. He leaned in conspiratorially. “But I did see the High School principal taking Derek Hale over there. I couldn’t catch what they were saying, but Derek had a face like thunder. Must be serious.”  
  
“Mmm,” Jackson agreed, chewing it over. Had there been a mauling? Surely someone would have made an announcement.  
  
“…made up of what kind of cells, Mr. Whittemore?” Dr. Deaton said pointedly, waiting for an answer he knew he wouldn’t get, since Jackson hadn’t caught even half of that. After a moment’s sheepish stumbling, Dr. Deaton took mercy on him. He sighed. “I know you’re all very interested in finding out whatever just happened at the High School, but could we please pay attention?” He shook his head mock sadly. “It’s like you guys _want_ me to give you detention…”  
  
A collective groan went out, but they settled down. Jackson pushed the whole thing out of his thoughts, and tried to concentrate on his schoolwork.  
  
He was back to burning curiosity when he opened the door to his last class of the day, only to see Mr. Harris leafing through a sheaf of papers in Hale’s stead.  
  
He nudged Danny’s side. “Where’s Derek?”  
  
“That’s Mr. Hale to you, Whittemore,” Harris said in a monotone voice, never taking his eyes off the papers.  
  
Jackson rolled his eyes. Derek Hale had made it abundantly clear from the day he’d started at this school that anyone calling him Sir or Mister would do so at the risk of making him very unhappy. If it came down to a choice between pissing off a former Recon Marine or seeming respectful in front of the rest of the faculty, Jackson knew which one he’d pick.  
  
No sooner had they sat down than Harris was up and passing out slips of paper. “Give these to your parents. I’m sure they’re already familiar with the procedures.”  
  
Jackson read the note. ‘Blah blah blah…we ask that your child come to school in clothes washed with non-scented detergents and fabric softeners. Colognes and scented deodorants will also be prohibited for the time being. Included is a list of temporarily banned items (see overleaf for details)…’ Christ, he hadn’t seen one of these things since the start of seventh grade. What the hell was going on here?  
  
Harris answered the unspoken question. “If he doesn’t go into sensory overload before Monday, it looks like you’ll be getting a new classmate in your ranks.”  
  
Jackson made a face at the cacophony of noise that erupted as everyone tried to ask their questions at the same time. Harris shut them up with a hard look. “You’re going to have to get a handle on that too, provided you don’t want to actually deafen this kid.”  
  
Someone groaned. “Noise regulation? But that’s for little kids…”  
  
Somehow Harris managed to convey the vast depths of his contempt with nothing more than the raising of an eyebrow. “I’m going to assume, despite all appearances, that you kids are in fact capable of empathy. Can you imagine how you’d feel if your senses had manifested all at once? Can you maybe make a vague little stab at sensitivity here?”  
  
Brandon shrunk back into his seat, looking suitably chastened.  
  
Jackson’s brow furrowed in confusion. “If this kid’s just manifested, why aren’t they putting him in with the seventh graders?”  
  
Harris sat back on his desk and sighed, lifting his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Because he’s sixteen, Mr. Whittemore. Putting him in a class of twelve year olds isn’t exactly feasible.”  
  
Jackson’s mouth actually dropped open. He snapped it shut, not wanting to risk looking like some gormless halfwit, but the shock remained. Most Weres started to come into their senses by eleven or twelve. Thirteen was pushing it. If a kid with the lycanthropy gene hadn’t manifested by their fourteenth birthday, it was a pretty safe bet they were latent, and never would. Sixteen was unheard of.  
  
Harris glared murderously at them all until the noise died down again. “Seriously. Learn to keep your voices down, and learn it quick. The school bell ruptured that kid’s eardrums today. If he makes it to Monday without going insane, noise like that will actually _hurt him_.” The class quietened guiltily. “That’s more like it. Since Mr. Hale didn’t leave a lesson plan, I’d like you to use this time to write me an essay on the chemical properties of Aconitum Anthora and its effects.”  
  
A collective groan went up, but the students bent to their task obediently. Jackson probably knew as much about Yellow Monkshood as Harris did, but he couldn’t concentrate on putting it down on paper. His thoughts kept circling back to what Harris had said. He’d heard of untrained Weres with sensitive hearing perforating their eardrums with exposure to loud noises. Just how strong were this kid’s senses if a simple school bell had burst his eardrums? Vague unease settled deep in his belly, though he couldn’t have put a name to the feeling if asked.  
  
“Whittemore,” Harris snapped. “Essay. Now, or you get to take it home with you and double the length.”  
  
Well, that was a threat worthy of his attention. Jackson had better things to do with his afternoon than write a stupid essay. He picked up his pen, and pushed all thoughts of late bloomers who may or may not have been stronger than him out of his mind. He was top of his class. He had nothing to worry about.


	2. Chapter 2

Jackson got out of his car on Monday morning with a stomach that was inexplicably tied in knots. Danny picked him out of the milling crowd around the front steps, and they fell into step together.  
  
“You heard anything yet?” Jackson asked, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a mile.  
  
“Some kid named McCall. I heard Derek Hale kept him at his own house over the weekend, trying to acclimatise him.”  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“Yes, seriously. They were probably worried he’d wind up in the loony bin without Derek’s supervision.” Danny shook his head, seeming a little stunned. “It’s like this kid went from zero to full on werewolf just like that,” he said, clicking his fingers for emphasis. “Every sense, all at once. Looks like full strength too.”  
  
Jackson looked at Danny sharply as they made their way into Derek’s classroom. “They’ve already done his preliminary testing?”  
  
“Deaton did them himself.”  
  
“And?” Jackson pushed, impatient.  
  
Danny tutted at Jackson. “You know those are confidential.”  
  
Jackson snorted. “That’s never stopped you before.”  
  
Danny’s eyes slid off to the side, guilty. He squirmed. “Okay, so maybe I hacked into the kid’s records.”  
  
“Danny, if you don’t spill right now, I am going to -”  
  
“Okay, okay!” Danny said quickly, looking around them as if to check for eavesdroppers. As if proximity made a damn bit of difference in a Were school. “He’s off the fucking scale, man,” Danny said finally, excitement creeping into his voice. “Like, Laura Hale levels of super senses.”  
  
Jackson’s stomach dropped.  
  
Sympathy flashed over Danny’s face, and he winced. “Sorry, man. Unless this guy winds up repeating a year, looks like you can kiss your signing bonus goodbye.”  
  
No fucking way. He hadn’t scraped and clawed his way to the top of the pile only for some freakishly powerful newbie to just take his place. That graduating Distinction was _his_. He wouldn’t entertain the idea of any other possibility.  
  
Danny was about to say something - some stupid platitude that would make Jackson want to smack him, no doubt - when he looked out the window and caught sight of the recruitment officer leaving the building. The seniors didn’t have their recruitment drive for another nine or ten months, and there was just no damn way they were sniffing round one new student two years before graduation, no matter how strong his senses were…  
  
Derek’s purposeful footsteps in the hallway were enough to pull his attention back, and he shoved Danny off his desk before Derek twisted the doorknob open and came in.  
  
The class settled of its own accord, affording Derek a level of easy respect that the rest of the faculty had never managed to achieve. Derek was still looking out into the hallway, not paying them a blind bit of attention. “It’s okay, they’ve shut up now. You can come in,” he said quietly.  
  
Jackson held his breath as a boy shuffled hesitantly inside, looking like a deer in the headlights. His eyes were wide and brown and patently shell shocked; his hair a wild shock of black. There was a kind of angular prettiness to his features and an innocent, baffled sweetness to his expression that Jackson might have found somewhat attractive on anyone else. Instead, instant resentment flooded through him.  
  
The kid reached up to mess with his hair, and Jackson finally noticed the fluffy black earmuffs covering his ears. He suppressed a laugh. Why the hell hadn’t anyone given the poor bastard a pair of noise isolating earbuds?  
  
“You can take those off now, Scott,” Derek told the new kid, voice barely louder than a whisper. “This room’s as well soundproofed as it gets. The other kids will be quiet.” _If they know what’s good for them_ , he told them all with a silencing glare. No-one made a peep.  
  
McCall hesitantly pulled off the earmuffs, and then Jackson saw the orange tips of the top-of-the-range earbuds already nestled in his ear canals. Just how sensitive was this kid?  
  
McCall paled visibly, looking faintly sick, swallowing heavily before perching carefully in the empty seat beside Jackson. Jackson found his eyes sliding to the side despite himself, unable to tear himself away.  
  
“This is Scott McCall,” Derek addressed the class, his voice so low a mundane wouldn’t even have heard it. “As the rumour mill has probably informed you, I’ll be trying to bring him up to speed in my own time. In the meantime, keep the noise down.” The ‘ _or else_ ’ was silent, but firmly implied. Derek’s glares were a thing of legend.  
  
He sat on the edge of his desk, eyebrow raised, until he was satisfied at their compliance, then inclined his head at the textbook cupboard at the back of the class. “Greenberg, go get the History books. One each. Read chapters three to five.”  
  
Everyone groaned. Derek normally scorned traditional lesson plans in favour of a more practical approach. Jackson guessed that was out the window until the new kid mastered dialling his senses back a notch or ten. One more reason to resent the little shit. Couldn’t he just sit on the sidelines and let the rest of them get on with it?  
  
He bent over his book, aiming his fierce scowl at the printed words in front of him, not wanting to give Derek any reason to aim the Glare of Death his way. Derek was just about the only person he’d ever met, besides his father, who could make him feel all of three feet tall with nothing more than a look.  Maybe because Derek was one of the few people whose opinion actually mattered to him.  
  
From the corner of his eye, he saw Derek approach McCall, setting a book carefully down in front of him. “Still feel sick?”  
  
McCall gave a tiny nod, as if the movement might make it worse. “A little.” So soft it was barely more than a movement of his lips. “Too many smells…”  
  
“You need to go home?”  
  
A faint shake of the head.  
  
Derek reached over and squeezed the kid’s shoulder. “We’ll go over those exercises again after school - you almost had it last night. Chin up, kid - it won’t be like this forever.” He indicated the book. It was an introductory guide they handed out to kids who’d tested positive for the Were gene. “You’re probably rusty on this stuff. Give it another read through, it ought to help.” He aimed a stern look at the kid. “If you start to fixate on something, say something, for God’s sake. Don’t let it -” Then he seemed to remember he had an audience (who were all very pointedly trying to look as if they weren’t listening in on every word.) “Just speak up, okay?”  
  
McCall nodded, and opened his book. Derek shuffled back to his desk and flung himself into his chair, closing his eyes. He looked bone tired suddenly. His weekend couldn’t have been all that fun, Jackson mused.  
  
“Whittemore,” Derek said without opening his eyes. “You might be single handedly skewing the grading curve, but you still need to do the work. Three to five.”  
  
Suitably chastened, Jackson began to read.  
  
By the time he got home that evening, his growing bitterness was like a lead ball in his belly, weighing him down. He’d went for a drive out on the empty lot of the abandoned industrial site at the edge of town, but even that couldn’t keep his mind off it. He’d worked _so_ hard for this, and for what? So that some doe-eyed kid with zero training and even less control could come along and snatch it all out from under him? It wasn’t _fair_.  
  
He must’ve been later than he thought, because he could smell his mother’s cooking when he came through the door. His father was already seated at the table - a rare occurrence in and of itself, with his usual long days in the boardroom.  
  
“You’re home early,” he said, angling.  
  
His dad raised a brow. “And you’re late.” Not accusing, just curious. It was a rare reversal.  
  
“I went for a drive,” Jackson said finally, as bland as if he was describing the weather.  
  
His mother came in and set a casserole dish in the middle of the table, kissing the top of Jackson’s head in passing. She laid enough food on the table to feed a small army of mundanes. For three Weres, it was just enough. She sat down and began digging in, looking over at Jackson inquisitively. “Did that new student show up today?”  
  
Great. Even here, he couldn’t escape it. He stabbed a piece of beef with his fork. He was proud of how level his voice was when he answered. “Yeah. Some kid named Scott McCall.”  
  
“Melissa McCall’s boy? I’ll be damned. I had that one down for a latent. What age is he now?”  
  
“Sixteen.”  
  
“That must have come as a shock.”  
  
 _You’re telling me_ , Jackson thought and shoved a forkful of food into his mouth so he didn’t have to speak.  
  
His dad had a thoughtful look on his face. “They say sometimes the ones that come into it later on wind up being extraordinarily sensitive. Look at Laura Hale - she was almost fifteen when she manifested.”  
  
His mom shrugged. “Higher risk though. It’s a wonder that poor boy didn’t wind up institutionalised.”  
  
Jackson scowled at his dinner. “Derek’s looking after him. Danny said they haven’t seen preliminaries like his since Laura.”  
  
Something in his voice must have given him away, because both his parents turned sympathetic, consolatory eyes on him. “That’s just luck of the draw, son,” his dad said, reaching out to lay a paternal hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “You know it doesn’t matter to us if you get the Distinction when you graduate. We know how hard you’ve worked, whether you get it or not.”  
  
 _It matters to me_ , he didn’t scream, through sheer force of will. His mother and father had both received Distinctions from their schools. Generation after generation, Whittemores got Distinctions, entered the military with a big fat signing bonus, and that was that. ‘ _You’re not really a Whittemore though, are you?_ ’ that insidious little pang of doubt in the back of his head reminded him. He swallowed. “I’ll make you proud, I swear it,” he said finally.  
  
His mother looked at him sadly. “Sweetie, you already do.” She opened her mouth as if to continue, but his dad shook his head and she settled for a simple hand squeeze.  
  
Jackson pushed his plate away, appetite suddenly gone. He hated pity, no matter how well they meant. “Can I be excused?”  
  
“Sure,” his dad said with a sigh.  
  
Jackson trudged up the stairs. They could reassure him all they wanted, but it wouldn’t change the fact that Jackson needed that Distinction. He wasn’t about to let anyone take it away from him. McCall had better watch his back, because Jackson wasn’t about to let him coast by on raw talent. If the kid was going to snatch that honour out of his grasp, Jackson was damn well going to make him work for it.


	3. Chapter 3

Scott looked up at his house and sighed in relief. Every loose shingle and flecking bit of paint was a sight for sore eyes. He was glad to be home.  
  
Derek rolled down the window of his Camaro and leaned out to speak. “Your mom’s got my number. Tell her to call me if you start having an episode. Don’t try to tough it out if this is too hard -”  
  
Scott rolled his eyes. “‘There’s no shame in asking for help.’ I know, I know.” If he wound up asking for help it would probably be because being caught fixating on a creaky tree branch outside his window for hours on end the last time had been more embarrassing than he cared to admit. Losing time was a pain in the ass. “I’ll be fine, Derek. I haven’t zoned out in days.”  
  
Derek gave him a stern look, obviously dubious. Sometimes it seemed like he thought Scott couldn’t wipe his own ass without help. “Call. Don’t be late for class tomorrow, we’ve got to start getting you up to speed on your academics soon or the principal will take it out on my ass.”  
  
“Don’t remind me,” Scott groaned. He’d been at the Were school for a couple of weeks now, and it still seemed to him that his teachers were more often than not talking in some bizarre language that bore a passing resemblance to English, and yet somehow made zero sense to him. He looked forward to the day he could answer a supposedly simple question without the other kids looking at him like he was a complete moron.  
  
Something softened in Derek’s eyes. “It does get easier, you know.”  
  
“So they keep telling me.”  
  
Derek shrugged. “Look at it this way - at least you’re not in an institution. You could be doing a lot worse.”  
  
Reassurance wasn’t really Derek’s strong suit. “Bye, Derek,” Scott said pointedly, and finally wrestled the front door open from its warped frame. Behind him, he heard the car pull away.  
  
“Scott? Is that you?”  
  
Before he had time to do much more than shut the door behind him and look around, his mother had tackled him almost to the ground in a hug so tight he could barely breathe. He clung to her anyway, breathing in the soothing natural scent of her that he’d never even been aware of until he’d come into his senses.  
  
She was blinking sentimental tears out of her eyes when she pulled back to look him up and down, as if checking him over to see if anything had changed. “You’re okay now? You can stay? Being here won’t hurt you?”  
  
“I’m fine, mom, and yeah, Derek says I’ve got enough control to come home now.”  
  
He could see the relief washing over her in a visible wave, and he felt guilty that it had taken him so long to rein in his new abilities. “Thank God. Spending an hour a day with your kid is just not good enough, and -”  
  
“Mom,” he interjected. “I’m home now. Everything’s going to be fine.” He hoped.  
  
She pulled away and offered him a smile, and okay, maybe it was a little bit manic, but she had every right to be a little overwhelmed. “I did everything the booklets said to. Cleaned the house top to bottom; neutral scents. I had that special double glazing fitted in your room, but I can’t afford the soundproofing just yet, I’m sorry -”  
  
“Mom, it’s fine, I have these,” he said, producing his earbuds from their little case in his pocket. “You don’t have to spend all that money.” As if he didn’t feel guilty enough about all the hidden expenses that cropped up when your kid suddenly manifested. There was no way he could let her pay to have the whole house soundproofed, no matter how much the very thought of it sounded like heaven to him.  
  
“Then there’s the full moon…”  
  
“Derek says I can spend those nights over at his.”  
  
“That’s very kind of him. I hate to impose, but…”  
  
But converting the attic or basement into a secure enough containment chamber for Scott might take a third of a year’s salary. There was no way they could afford that on their budget. It was possible he’d have enough control in a couple of years that he might not even need it, which would make it a total waste of money. “I swear, he’s fine with it,” he reassured her. “He’s not the kind of guy that would have offered if he didn’t mean it.”  
  
Her smile softened, losing the manic edge. “I owe that man a fruit basket.”  
  
Scott snorted, trying to imagine Derek clutching a big, ribbon-tied, cellophane wrapped monstrosity. He could just picture the look on his face. “I don’t think Derek’s a fruit basket kind of guy.”  
  
Then the front door burst open, banging loudly into the wall. “Did he get home yet, Ms. M?” Stiles yelled, breathless, as if he ran the whole way there.  
  
Scott winced at the noise, but considered it progress that he wasn’t rolling around the floor in agony. “Yes, I’m home,” he said, watching as Stiles eyes widened in surprise to see him. “And you don’t have to yell.”  
  
“Shit! Sorry, man, I didn’t think. I guess there’s a whole bunch of stuff we’ll have to do differently now, like -”  
  
“I take it you’re staying for dinner, Stiles?” his mother cut in before Stiles could really get one of his epic tangents going.   
  
Stiles nodded enthusiastically, already pulling Scott up the stairs to his room. “Uh huh, sure, if that’s alright?”  
  
His mom sighed in resignation, giving up on spending some quality time with her newly returned son. “Just bring him down at dinner time.”  
  
Scott gave her an apologetic look over his shoulder as he let Stiles drag him along in his wake.  
  
“So?” Stiles said as he sat down on Scott’s bed, his body visibly thrumming in excitement. “What’s it like being in the Were club?”  
  
Scott screwed his face up as he shut the door gently behind him. “Were club? Really?”  
  
Stiles shrugged. “Oh come off it, man, like you never noticed the way the kids at the Supe School look down their noses at ‘mundanes.’ Though I guess if you grow up knowing that you actually are better than everyone else - physically, at least - you’re bound to develop a propensity for being an elitist jackass. Present company excepted, of course.”  
  
Scott snorted. “Of course,” he said dryly. “They don’t all look down their noses at everyone.” Though he could think of at least one exception to that - Jackson Whittemore was the snobbiest jerk he’d ever met in his life. There wasn’t a day that went by that Jackson didn’t look at him as if he were something he’d scraped off the bottom of his shoe. Not that that would help with his point, so he wisely didn’t mention it.  
  
“You’re one of them now, dumbass, of course they don’t treat you like the rest of us plebes,” Stiles said.  
  
Scott shrugged, too tired to argue, and threw himself down on the bed, legs over the side. He’d missed Stiles. He reached for the TV remote, switching it on without a single thought for the volume he’d left it at.  
  
He clapped his hands to his ears as a punk song blared from the speakers, moaning in pain. Stiles scrambled over the top of him for the remote, hitting mute as quick as he could.  
  
“You okay, buddy?” he questioned, peering worriedly down into Scott’s face. “At least your ears aren’t bleeding this time.”  
  
Scott hesitantly uncovered his ears, shaking his head like it would get rid of the ringing. That hadn’t been that bad - a week ago, that kind of noise would’ve blown his hearing for minutes at a time. He rubbed at his ears. “I’ll be fine. Didn’t expect it, that’s all.”  
  
Stiles shook his head. “Stick your earbud thingies in, I’ll adjust the volume for you.”  
  
Scott did as he was asked, while Stiles set the controls to a low murmur. He pulled out the earbuds. Just right. Thank God. “I haven’t watched a minute of TV in over two weeks. Derek didn’t want to risk it.”  
  
Stiles tutted in sympathy, then looked down at his watch. “There’s a DeLuna marathon on right now.”  
  
“Really? I haven’t seen that show in forever. Put it on,” Scott told him.  
  
Stiles switched the channel over, and there was Detective DeLuna on screen, iconic leather coat as battered as ever, eyes glowing gold in in the dark, his faithful human partner Baines at his side. As always, it made him think of long summer evenings at Stiles’ side, playing pretend; of staying up past his bedtime, lying curled against his dad’s side, blinking sleep out of his eyes as they watched it together.  
  
He remembered thinking how cool it looked when DeLuna wolfed out on a bad guy. Now it just made him feel sick. He watched DeLuna corner some nameless thug in an alley, eyes shining, saliva dripping off his sharp teeth as the full moon shone overhead, and suddenly his stomach was in knots. It didn’t seem quite as appealing in reality. He was glad he wouldn’t have to spend his first full moon with his mother in attendance.  
  
Stiles must have noticed his quietness, because he looked over and sighed. “Not the best choice of show right now, huh?” He switched the channel without complaint.  
  
“News?” Scott complained, scrunching up his nose.  
  
Stiles rolled his eyes. “You’re an uncultured slob, McCall. It won’t hurt you to learn about the world around you”  
  
“Uh-huh. What’s on after the news?”  
  
“…okay, so maybe Die Hard is showing in a few minutes, but still! Being informed is a good thing!”  
  
Scott only laughed, the sound almost unfamiliar to his own ears. It was good to have Stiles back. It was kind of lonely at the Supe School without him. So far there were a whole lot more cons than pros to the whole ‘being a Were’ thing.  
  
On the screen, a news anchor was droning on about something or other as she stood in front of a group of protestors that seemed to have chained themselves to a railing. One kid with dreadlocks shoved a placard in front of the news anchor’s face. “Were Equality,” it said, in bold black lettering.  
  
“Shit, is there nothing safe on the TV tonight?” Stiles said, fumbling to change the channel.  
  
Scott grabbed the remote out of his hand. “Leave it.”  
  
It was a piece on the growing opposition to the current laws on the conscription of Weres into the military. Right now, enlistment was voluntary, but if another war broke out…  
  
Stiles snatched the remote back, flipping the channel over. “No. You’re in a big enough funk as it is, without worrying about some stupid conscription that might never happen.”  
  
“What about Die Hard?” Scott said listlessly, a black ball of dread curling up and settling at the base of his spine, chilling him to the bone.  
  
“Fuck Die Hard.” He turned to face Scott head on, a wide, forced smile on his lips. If he was trying to look reassuring, it wasn’t working very well. “Look, you’re sixteen and the universe has just graced you with the kind of super senses most people can only dream of. You can do freaking anything. Be anything you want to be. Graduation isn’t even for another two years - they might have repealed those fucking antiquated conscription laws by then.”  
  
Scott flopped down to lay back on the bed, sighing. He looked up at the ceiling, silently chewing that over for a minute or two. “Stiles?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I really hope so.”  
  
Stiles didn’t answer for a long time. “So do I, buddy,” he said finally. Scott let the waver of fear in his voice go unmentioned.  
  
“You want to play Halo?” he said after a while, just to break the awkward silence.  
  
“Fuck yeah!”  
  
They spent the next hour mindlessly shooting things and mashing buttons, and if it seemed a little contradictory, no-one mentioned it. Scott pushed that churning ball of dread out of his thoughts, and, for a while at least, he felt normal again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I've went back and edited a small section that felt clunky and awkward, but it shouldn't effect much.

Scott sat at his desk with his fingers poised above the keyboard of his computer. The screen stayed pristinely white, mocking him. He didn’t know what to say. What was the point anyway? His dad hadn’t answered any of the emails he’d sent in the last six months. What would make this time any different?  
  
 _‘Maybe if he knew you were like him now…’_  
  
No. His dad had been so relieved when the doctor had finally announced he was just another latent a year and a half ago. He’d never wanted this life for Scott.  
  
He’d been doing a little better the last time Scott had talked to him, which had made it all the more worrying when he’d just dropped off the grid a few months ago. The only reason Scott knew he wasn’t lying dead in a ditch somewhere was because he had a military microchip, and they’d have been notified if he’d turned up on some coroner’s slab somewhere. Scott had no idea how his dad might react to the news, so why even bother risking it?  
  
He shut down his computer with a sigh and reached for the picture he kept face down on the dresser, looking it over critically, searching for the thousandth time for any hint of what was to come later.  
  
His dad stood proud and tall; broad shouldered and handsome in his uniform; a wide, pleased smile splitting his face. Scott stood in front of him, his dad’s hand rustling his hair affectionately. He smiled faintly to himself as he always did when he looked at himself in his little homemade Baines costume: a truly garish blazer and matching tie, and a water pistol tucked into his belt. Stiles had been just out of the shot that day, waiting not so patiently for Scott to finish up so he could draw DeLuna’s mustache on for him.  
  
They both looked so happy. His dad had just signed up for another five year term, eager to serve his country, like most Weres were. Something clenched in Scott’s chest as he looked at the photo, wishing there was some way he could go back and warn them what would happen. How that last deployment in Afghanistan would tear their happy little family apart.  
  
He swallowed heavily and set the picture back down, turning it away so he didn’t have to look at it. It hurt too much.  
  
“Scott?” his mother’s voice called softly from downstairs. Then, a little louder, as if she wasn’t sure he’d heard it the first time, “Scott? Breakfast’s ready.” He hadn’t the heart to tell her his hearing was more sensitive than she could ever imagine; that he could hear every toss and turn as she laid in bed at night, restless and troubled.  
  
He went down and sat at the table, trying not to sigh at the smell of oatmeal. God, if he never saw another bowl of oatmeal again in his life, it would be too soon. Pity it was one of the few things his sensitive taste buds could always be trusted to tolerate. Some days even adding milk was too much for him; souring his appetite completely.  
  
His mom sat the oatmeal in front of him with a smile. “Organic cream and a little honey,” she said when his nose twitched at the aroma.  
  
He dipped his spoon in hesitantly. “It’s good,” he said, shovelling more into his mouth, suddenly ravenous.  
  
“You don’t have to sound so surprised!” his mom laughed. “I joined a forum for moms of new Weres the other day - they said to try organic produce if your kid’s taste buds are sensitive.”  
  
It was definitely a marked improvement. It made the cement-like goop actually palatable for once. God, but he missed real food.  
  
He’d just finished when Stiles let himself in, the screen door slamming shut in his wake, as was usually the case. His mom winced. “Easy there Stiles,” she said for the hundredth time.  
  
“Sorry, Ms. M, won’t happen again,” Stiles promised, like he always did. Somehow it would have slipped his mind again by tomorrow morning. It was one of their rituals.  
  
“So, Scott, you ready for your big chance?” Stiles asked him, eyes wide and excited. “You want me to come watch?”  
  
His mom looked at him in suspicion. “Big chance? What exactly is he talking about, Scott?”  
  
Scott squirmed. He’d hoped he could slip the release form under her nose sometime she’d just come off shift, thereby zombified and completely uncaring as to what she was signing. He sighed, defeated, and searched in his back pocket for the crumpled form, handing it over reluctantly.  
  
As she read it, her frown turned to a look of confusion. “Lacrosse? You already play lacrosse. Why do you suddenly need a release form?”  
  
“I played _human_ lacrosse, mom,” he said. Well, mostly he’d sat on the bench, too asthmatic to be of much good to anybody, but still. “Were sports are different.”  
  
“Different? Different how?” she asked, eyebrows raised in puzzlement.  
  
“You’ve never watched any Were League sports? Lacrosse? Football? Hockey?” Stiles asked, incredulous.  
  
“I don’t even like regular sports, Stiles,” she told him, her voice stilted and impatient.  
  
Stiles looked to Scott, as if to say, ‘do you want to tackle this or should I?’ At Scott’s shrug, he began to explain. “Um, well, the Were divisions tend to be a little more…full body contact than the regular human ones.”  
  
“Full body contact,” his mom repeated, voice alarmingly flat.  
  
It was a nice way of saying that most players in the Were League were lucky to make it a single game without sustaining some kind of internal injury or breaking a bone. Things could get a little rough in any contact sport when your opponent’s wounds often healed before your eyes.  
  
Stiles gulped. “Yeah, um, it can get a little…violent.”  
  
That sent his mom into full Mama Bear mode. “Not only is the answer ‘no’, young man, but _over my dead body_.”  
  
“Mom, come on, it’s only a try out,” Scott whined. “It’s not a big deal, I heal really quick now -”  
  
“ _Not a big deal?_ ” she screeched, and Scott winced at the piercing pitch of it. “You want me to sit on the sidelines while my kid gets clobbered over the head with a lacrosse stick, or -”  
  
“You’re not allowed to use the stick for that kind of thing, Ms. M. It’s the blocking and the running at each other full tilt you have to worry about -”  
  
“Shut up, Stiles!” They both said in unison. His mom turned back to him, preparing for another onslaught.  
  
“Please, mom?” Scott pleaded before she could start up again. “Derek asked me to try it himself. He said it’s a really good outlet for blowing off steam, and I might even be kind of decent at it, now that my asthma’s gone. Would you just let me try? Please?”  
  
She deflated, searching him with worried, anxious eyes. She sighed, eyes sad. “You really want this, huh?”  
  
“Yes, I really want this.”  
  
She laid her head in her hands and groaned. “Fine. Give me the damn paper.”  
  
Scott handed her the slip. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face.  
  
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, kiddo. I want to see a game sometime, make sure this whole thing isn’t some kind of blood sport.”  
  
“Sure,” Scott agreed readily, light as air for a moment. He took the slip from her, kissed her on the cheek, and went flying up the stairs to fetch his old lacrosse gear and backpack.  
  
She was still looking at him like he’d kind of broke her heart when he came back down the stairs and dashed for the doorway. “Just don’t come back bleeding. That’s all I ask.”  
  
He smiled for her. “I’ll be fine. See you later.”  
  
Stiles was looking at him in wonderment as they hopped in his jeep. “Unbelievable. I can’t believe you got her to agree to that. You have got to teach me that sad puppy dog look you do, man.”  
  
Scott only laughed, feeling something lighten in him. He was actually almost looking forward to the day ahead of him for once. “You’re coming to watch, right? Just promise not to laugh if I suck.”  
  
Stiles grinned. “Hell yes, I am. Wouldn’t miss it. I’ve never had a good excuse to come spy on a practice at the Supe School before.”  
  
They got to the communal car park all too soon, and Scott sighed as he got out of the car. “Just another day of total humiliation to get through first.”  
  
Stiles winced. “Is it really that bad?”  
  
Scott gave him a hard look. “I don’t really know anyone there yet, I spend my classes feeling like an idiot, and lunch is a tasteless paste most days. Yes, it’s that bad.”  
  
Stiles clapped him on the shoulder as they came to the point they split off at. “Well, look on the bright side. Only two more years to go.”  
  
“That wasn’t reassuring at all,” he called after Stiles as they went their separate ways. He looked up at the imposing building in front of him. Well, at least he had something to look forward to today.  
  
***  
  
Scott sighed at the low, steady subsonic pulse that heralded the end of chemistry class. One more class to go. He shoved all his things haphazardly into his backpack and practically ran for the door. Mr. Harris sighed, and Scott didn’t need to look back to know the expression on his face was one of disappointment. He didn’t know how to convince the teachers here that he wasn’t being deliberately obtuse just to spite them. How was it his fault that Beacon Hills High taught a completely different curriculum than the Were School?  
  
He hurried to Derek’s class, anxious to get this last one over with. He couldn’t wait to get out on the field and see what his new, improved body could do. It had to be good for something, right?  
  
 Jackson was standing by the door to the classroom, talking to Danny, oblivious (or uncaring of) the fact that he was blocking everyone else’s way. Scott rolled his eyes and pushed past him.  
  
“Hey! Watch it McCall,” Jackson snapped, stepping into Scott’s space, an unspoken threat on his face. Beside him, Danny sighed and put a restraining hand on his arm.  
  
After two weeks of silently putting up with Jackson’s crap, the attempt at physical intimidation was the last straw. He turned back to Jackson, anger leaching all the colour of the world away in a red haze. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered where the growling was coming from. He didn’t realise it was him until a hand on his shoulder snapped him out of it and he found himself looking at Jackson’s wide, alarmed blue eyes, watching the other boy’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed audibly.  
  
Derek’s hand squeezed his shoulder, looking between the two of them. “Whatever this is about, save it for the lacrosse field.” He glared at them both steadily until they took their seats, then pointed at the blackboard, where ‘Careers’ was written in his own untidy scrawl.  
  
Jackson scoffed when he noticed it, turning to Danny. “A careers talk? Seriously?”  
  
“Yes, seriously, Whittemore,” Derek said, glowering. Jackson shut his mouth. “Besides, it’s a requirement. School Board orders.”  
  
Derek rose from his chair to prowl amongst their tables, passing his intense gaze over them, silently daring them to take him lightly. “Most of you are probably planning on stepping straight into the recruitment office after you graduate.”  
  
A murmur of agreement met that statement, and Scott shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do less.  
  
Derek shook his head, looking, if anything, disappointed, which seemed odd coming from a former Recon Marine. “Let’s say you sign up for a three year term. Maybe even five. What do you plan on doing after?”  
  
Greenberg shrugged. “My family’s career military. I’ll probably wind up a lifer…”  
  
Derek shrugged faintly. “By my guess, I’d say maybe two or three of you could be cut out for the long haul, if you’re lucky.” He looked at them all, eyes hard. “Most people aren’t. You probably think you’re tough; that you can handle anything. I’m here to tell you that you aren’t. Were warfare is like nothing you’ve ever known. You _will_ burn out. It’s just a matter of when.”  
  
That put a dampener on the mood. Scott looked at Jackson, unsurprised to see him rolling his eyes, like Derek’s whole speech had meant nothing to him.  
  
“I can see that some of you don’t believe me,” Derek continued, a dangerous smile tugging at his lips. Several of the students shrank back from him as he moved past them, prowling among them like a tiger, or a true wolf. “That’s fine. You’ll see for yourself, if you’re intent on signing up. But I’m here today to talk about options.”  
  
“What if you don’t get an option?” Scott found himself saying, squirming when every eye turned to him. “I mean, there’s all this talk about war breaking out in Iran. If that happens, there’ll probably be a conscription, right?”  
  
Derek turned to him, eyes softening in sympathy, recognising Scott’s reluctance. “Yeah. There might be. If that happens, graduating students of age eighteen or older have to sign a three year contract. You serve your three years and that’s it. They don’t bother you anymore.”  
  
Scott noticed Jackson looking at him from the corner of his eye, openly shocked, like he couldn’t believe what had come out of Scott’s mouth. Like it was unnatural to not want to enlist the second you were able to. Scott shifted in his seat. Did Jackson want him to be ashamed of it? Because he wasn’t. He’d seen what war could do to a man. He wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy.  
  
“We can’t control whether or not a conscription order is enacted. Hell, the lobbyists might even have gotten it repealed by the time you graduate. It’s in your own best interests to start thinking about what you want to do with your lives,” Derek said, looking them all over seriously. “Danny. What about you?”  
  
Danny looked at him uncertainly. “You mean after my three years..?”  
  
Derek sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Sure, why not? What kind of work do you want to go into after that?”  
  
“I don’t know, really,” Danny said, seeming put on the spot. “Something with computers maybe. Or maybe try out for the Were League!” he said, laughing.  
  
“Laugh all you want,” Derek said, looking down at his nails. “I knew a guy from high school that plays for the Skinwalkers now. He makes two million dollars a year.”  
  
Someone whistled, and Derek looked up from his nails. “Oh, that got your attention, did it? The Were Leagues can be pretty lucrative. Then there’s all the other specialized areas that Weres can do better than humans.”  
  
“Like police work,” Scott piped up, warming to the subject. “Don’t Weres make the best investigators?”  
  
Derek nodded. “That’s right. All those cheesy cop shows got _something_ right. Our senses, our speed, our strength - they all give us an edge. You have plenty of options. Just think about it.”  
  
They spent the rest of class leafing through the mildewed career guide books Derek found mouldering in the back corner of the textbook cupboard.  
  
Finally, the subsonic pulse was sounded, and everyone began to pack up their things. Derek wordlessly thrust a pamphlet into Scott’s face just as he was leaving.  
  
‘Careers in the Police Force.’ Scott paused in the doorway and looked back at Derek in confusion. He hadn’t thought Scott was actually serious about it, had he?  
  
Derek motioned him on, feigning impatience. “Don’t you have a try out to get to?”  
  
That was all the reminder Scott needed. He stuffed the pamphlet into his backpack and hurried off, all thoughts of the future banished in a flurry of sudden nerves.  
  
By the time he’d changed and made his way to the lacrosse field, Coach Finstock was already walking back and forth in front of the team, clipboard waving to and fro manically. Scott saw Stiles sitting up on the bleachers, far enough away that he hopefully wouldn’t draw too much attention to himself. Scott gave him a little wave.  
  
“What, McCall?” Coach Finstock said, impatient.  
  
Scott put his hand down hurriedly. “Nothing, Coach.”  
  
“Good. Hale said you were on the High School team. You know how this is done?”  
  
“Yeah,” Scott said, neglecting to mention his bench-warmer status. He’d spent long enough watching his team mates play that he had a pretty good idea of what he was supposed to do out there. In theory.  
  
“Whatever. You’re fronting one team, centre attack. Jackson’s got the other. Face off!” With that, he blew his whistle, apparently expecting them to know how to split off into those two teams.  
  
Danny slipped past him to go stand in goal, shaking his head. “Good luck,” he said, a kind of sympathetic look on his face. He muttered about ‘throwing newbies to the wolves’ all the way to his place.  
  
It was with somewhat less enthusiasm that Scott pulled on his helmet and made his way to the centre line to face off with Jackson. The murderous glee on Jackson’s face behind his mask didn’t do anything to ease the sudden case of nerves.  
  
Scott shifted into position, trying to block out everything. There was nothing in the world but the ball in front of his stick, and his own steady, thumping heartbeat in his ears.  
  
Jackson’s mocking voice broke through. “You should just step right aside, McCall; let the big boys play. This is a man’s game.”  
  
Scott could feel the wolf inside him stir at Jackson’s goading, pulling everything into sharp focus as the special, high frequency whistle blew, and then it was instinct that moved him as he and Jackson’s sticks clashed, struggling for control of the ball. Jackson snatched it up, spinning around Scott to dart down the field.  
  
Unfortunately for Jackson, the movement triggered some buried prey drive in Scott, and Scott was after him in the blink of an eye, checking him with such force that the other boy flew about a foot in the air before landing with a sick crunch. Scott snatched the ball out from under him, offering Jackson a satisfied, predatory grin as the other boy popped his own shoulder back in the socket.  
  
Scott ran down the field, dodging the other team’s defenders with reflexes he hadn’t known he had. Greenberg came thundering toward him and he danced to the side, the intended blow glancing off him. There was a solid wall of muscle, three deep, in front of the goal, so he leapt over them instead, twisting in midair like a damn gymnast to land right in front of a started looking Danny.  
  
Danny was lightning quick, but even he couldn’t stop the ball from ripping right through the netting on his stick, coming to rest in the back of the goal.  
  
Coach Finstock blew his whistle as Scott’s team whooped, suddenly surrounding him. Scott pulled his helmet off, blinking in disbelief, his heart pounding double time.  
  
Finstock slapped him on the shoulder, grinning proprietarily. “Not bad, McCall. You’re going completely on instinct, but we can train that out of you. Eventually. At least the instincts are _right_.” He glared down at Scott suspiciously. “You’re not another one of these military brats, are you?”  
  
“…no?” Scott answered, shrinking back from the fanatical look in Finstock’s eyes.  
  
The coach looked to the sky and made a praying gesture. “Thank you! I knew I’d have to get a gifted student that didn’t want to piss it all away by joining the army someday!”  
  
“The Marines, coach,” Jackson interjected, and Scott looked over at him, unsurprised at the extremely pissed off expression. He was still rubbing at his arm absently.  
  
“Whatever,” Finstock said dismissively. “Some of you could be making millions in the Were League, and all you want to do is waste that talent sitting in the desert pissing in your own MOPP suits, shitting in a hole in the ground and letting people shoot at you. Not that I speak from personal experience or anything…”  
  
Jackson was rolling his eyes. Scott got the impression they’d heard this spiel before. Danny nudged Scott in the side, leaning over to whisper. “Coach played in the minors for a few years until he got conscripted away from it. He’s kind of fanatical.”  
  
“Oh,” was all Scott could think of to say, surprised that Danny was talking to him at all, what with the way his best friend seemed to hate his guts and all.  
  
Danny nodded at him. “You were pretty good out there. We could use you this year - we lost a really good attack player to Blackwater Falls last year. He was a real demon on the field.”  
  
Before Scott could offer some kind of reply, coach drew their attention. “Alright. Same again. Danny, get yourself a new stick. Your shoulder good to go, Jackson?”  
  
“Yes, Coach,” Jackson bit out. He looked over at Scott and drew a line across his throat. Well, that wasn’t a good sign.  
  
“Well? What are you waiting for? Get in position, idiots!” Coach Finstock yelled.  
  
Jackson made him work for it for the remainder of practice, slamming into him and stick-checking him with the kind of velocity and force that would have broken a mundane’s neck. He spent the entire hour recovering from bruises and nursing ribs that kept getting cracked, but despite all that, there was a kind of fierce joy singing through his veins. He was good at this.  
  
Scott’s team was ahead by a single point when coach blew the whistle for the final time. Scott pulled off his helmet, panting faintly now. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face. Across from him, Jackson threw his helmet to the ground, spitting mad.  
  
Scott offered him a hand. “Good game, Jackson.”  
  
Jackson looked Scott’s outstretched hand like it was covered in flesh eating spores. He snorted in disbelief. “Fuck you.” He stormed off, pushing other players from his path as he went.  
  
He heard Stiles coming a mile away. “Where in the hell did you learn to do that? That was freaking amazing!”  
  
Scott laughed. He was starting to feel a little giddy, now that the adrenaline was fading. “I have no idea. Instinct, I guess? Like my body knew what to do before I did.”  
  
Stiles shook his head, grinning. “You are so freaking lucky, with your stupid werewolf genes.”  
  
Scott grinned back. “Yeah. I guess I am,” he said, feeling for the first time that maybe his manifestation wasn’t the curse he’d thought it was. The future wasn’t set in stone yet, and at least he finally had something good out of the deal. Maybe there were perks to this whole werewolf thing after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um...sorry for the long absence? *ducks rotten fruit* But seriously, the delay was due to a mix of writer's block, anxiety issues, and sheer unadulterated procrastination, so you have my apologies. Hopefully I can get back into the flow soon. 
> 
> This was started well before season two began, so I may or may not incorporate anything pertaining to S2 in the fic, including any new character developments in the show.
> 
> Also, sorry for misspelling the title of my _own bloody fic_ for five freaking chapters before noticing what I'd done. Put that down to a brain fart. Embarrassing!

Jackson glared at Scott as the kid parked his bike next to Jackson’s usual spot, rubbing at his shoulder as phantom pain arced down the length of his arm, though it had healed long ago.  
  
He saw Danny nod a greeting at Scott as he fell into step with Jackson. Jackson’s disapproving glare said it all.  
  
“What? I’m not allowed to speak to people you don’t like? What are we, twelve?” Danny chided him as they climbed the steps.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jackson snapped. Logically, he knew it was beyond childish to not want his best friend to be nice to the new kid. It was just that every time he looked at Scott McCall, logic flew out the window, only to be replaced by the kind of all-encompassing resentment that completely overshadowed any objective rationality he might have had.  
  
It had been tough enough to try to come to terms with the sudden threat to the Distinction that should, by rights, be his, but when Scott had let it slip that he didn’t even want to enlist at all, it was like a slap to the face. The thought of the thing he’d dreamt of since he was a little kid  being wasted on someone who wouldn’t even appreciate it made him feel physically sick. Scott’s apparent natural talent for lacrosse had just been the cherry on top of the shit sundae that his life had become. So yeah, to see Danny be his usual nice-as-pie self to McCall galled, to say the least.  
  
Danny sighed at him, unamused by the sullen silence. “He’s not a bad guy, Jackson. He’s new and he’s having to adjust to a lot right now, and I hate to break it to you man, but you’re kind of being a dick. It’s not like he’s trying to replace you.”  
  
Jackson felt like he’d been slapped. He actually rocked back a step, as if he’d been dealt a physical blow.  
  
“Come on, I didn’t mean it like that. You’re my best friend - I’ll take your side if you want,” Danny reassured him.  
  
It was tempting, but freezing someone out just wasn’t in Danny’s nature. It wouldn’t be fair to him. He shrugged. “It’s fine. Just don’t expect me to be all sunshine and unicorn farts around him, that’s all.”  
  
“I’m asking for civility, not miracles,” Danny said wryly, and ducked Jackson’s intended headlock, laughing, as they made their way to class.  
  
English class was kind of boring - they weren’t even dealing with Were authors this semester - until the principal knocked at the door and entered, a dark haired girl following hesitantly in his wake.  
  
That made the entire class sit up and pay attention. They only had a dozen female Weres in their entire school, and none in their class since Jessica Monroe transferred to one of the all girl’s schools three years ago.  
  
The principal urged her to step forward. “This is Allison Argent. Her family’s just moved to Beacon Hills from Washington State. She’s not used to being at a co-ed school - I trust that you’ll all do your best to make her feel welcome?”  
  
They murmured their assent, every eye trained on her as she took the empty seat in front of Scott, doing her best to hide the way their stares obviously made her uneasy. She was pretty, Jackson noted, already weighing his options.  
  
Suddenly Scott leaned forward, silently offering Allison a pen. She laughed softly, delighted. “Eavesdropping’s considered rude, you know,” she chided him, watching as he blushed and ducked his head, “but in this case, thanks.”  
  
“No problem,” Scott said, giving her a disgustingly endearing lopsided smile.  
  
Jackson frowned. No way was _McCall_ of all people moving in on her already. More to the point, there was no way Jackson was going to _let_ him. He didn’t usually consider actually dating anyone - of either gender - to be worth his valuable time, but in this case he thought he’d make an exception. He tilted his head, looking the girl over consideringly. She’d be one hell of a status symbol, that was for sure.  
  
“Come on, class, settle down,” their English teacher said, clapping for their attention like an overgrown seal. “Back to Kafka, please.”  
  
Chastened, they turned back to their notes. It didn’t stop anyone from stealing glances at the new girl any chance they got. Jackson smiled smugly to himself. He could be _very_ charming when he wanted to be. None of them stood a chance.  
  
***  
  
Jackson watched Allison intently as the pulse sounded the end of Derek’s class, waiting for his opportunity. She got up, and he followed, opening his mouth to ask her what she was doing after school, when a hand landed with a heavy thump on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.  
  
“Hey!” Jackson snapped, teeth sharpening in his mouth as he turned, only to see Derek Hale looking back at him, seriously unamused. “Oh. Sorry, Derek, I didn’t see you there.”  
  
“I need to talk to you. You too, Scott,” he said, waving them both over to stand next to his desk.  
  
Danny gave him a questioning look as he passed, and Jackson shrugged in response. He didn’t have a clue why he was being held back after class. His grades were perfect, and anything he might have done to Scott wasn’t big enough to warrant disciplinary action. That must be it, Jackson thought, throwing a resentful look Scott’s way. McCall couldn’t take a little hazing, and Derek was stepping in for his little pet. Fucking preferential treatment, that’s what it was…  
  
Allison left, looking back between the two of them curiously as she closed the door shut behind her. Jackson suppressed a growl. God knew what she would think.  
  
When he looked back at Scott, he looked just as confused as Jackson felt, and not a little worried besides. Okay, so maybe McCall hadn’t squealed on him. What the hell was the problem then?  
  
Derek waited till the noise in the hallway died down and then pulled himself up to sit on the edge of his desk, looking between the two of them, considering something carefully.  
  
“Scott, I think we both know the academic side of things isn’t really coming together for you just yet,” he began. “It’s not really fair, I know. Everyone else has been doing this for four years. You’ve been at it a month. Doesn’t mean the principal isn’t on my ass for it, and he has the recruitment officers on his ass.”  
  
Jackson watched Scott suck in a shocked breath. It was a surprise to him, too. The recruitment officers didn’t poke their heads in on the affairs of sixteen year old kids. It just wasn’t done - and he should know. If that was how things worked, his letter of interest would be coming a year and a half early.  
  
Derek looked at Scott sympathetically, like the honour of having a recruitment officer  personally invested in your progress was actually something to be _sympathetic_ for. “Your prelims drew a lot of attention, Scott, there’s no getting around that, but they can’t _make_ you.”  
  
Scott laughed humourlessly. “Not unless they declare another war.”  
  
Derek gave a one-shouldered shrug.  
  
Jackson felt himself shaking with pent up rage, listening to them talk about the thing he wanted with everything he had like it was some kind of hardship to be avoided at all costs. “McCall’s a crappy student, news at eleven,” Jackson interjected sarcastically, completely past the point of caring what Derek might think of that kind of back talk. “Why am I here?”  
  
“I was getting to that,” Derek said, eyebrow raised, staring steadily at Jackson until he relaxed his aggressive stance, backing off a step. “I want you to tutor him,” he said, like it was the most reasonable request in the world.  
  
Jackson gave a disbelieving laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”  
  
Derek looked at him flatly. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”  
  
“You can’t be serious!”  
  
“Seriously?” Scott said at the same time as him, equally taken aback.  
  
Derek huffed out a sigh and rolled his eyes. “Yes, seriously. Scott, you need some help, and Jackson’s the best student we have.”  
  
Jackson’s lips curved into a smile despite himself, preening under the praise, until he remembered what Derek was asking. “Do I really have to?” he whined.  
  
Derek’s expression said it all. This whole thing was clearly trying his patience. “No, no-one’s going to make you. But I would take it as a personal favour if you did.”  
  
Put like that, it was harder to say no. Derek didn’t go around asking favours of just anybody like that. It was sort of a compliment, in a way…  
  
He looked at Scott, considering the request. The kid was looking down at the ground, clearly miserable at this turn of events; maybe even a little angry. That clinched it, funnily enough. Maybe Allison wasn’t the only way he could get one over on Scott.  
  
“Alright, why not?” His sly smile only spread at the twin expressions of surprise aimed his way.  
  
Derek clapped him on the shoulder jocularly, knocking him back a step under the force. “I knew you two could be reasonable about this.”  
  
Jackson grinned at Scott as the other boy hunched in on himself, clearly uncomfortable, but unable to protest. Danny always said he looked like a shark when he smiled that way, and he used it to full effect now, watching as Scott looked back at him uneasily.  
  
“So when do we start?” Scott asked eventually, looking up at him from under his mop of unruly bangs, sullen but resigned.  
  
“How about now?” Jackson said cheerfully, really taking to the idea now.  
  
“Should I come over to your house, or..?”  
  
Jackson scoffed. “You are so clueless. Neutral ground, McCall. You don’t go into a rival wolf’s territory like that, unless you want it to turn into a pissing match.” _Which I’d clearly win_ , he didn’t add out loud. His superior expression said it all.  
  
Derek rolled his eyes and shooed them out, washing his hands of the two of them now he’d gotten his way. “Alright, get out of here. And try not to kill each other.” He didn’t sound convinced they wouldn’t, looking between the two of them with something akin to worry on his normally stoic face.  
  
Jackson only smiled wider, following along in Scott’s wake, mind already poring over the multitude of possibilities this favour might result in. Adaptability was the key to survival, after all, and if there was one thing Jackson was, it was opportunistic.  
  
***  
  
Jackson waited impatiently at his usual booth at McCreary’s, tapping his pen against the tabletop. He waved the server away again, and stretched to steal a look out the window. No sign of Scott yet. He wondered if maybe he hadn’t pushed the kid too far last time and hoped Derek wouldn’t blame him for the deal going sour.  
  
They’d had a study session at some mundane diner yesterday. It hadn’t gone well, to say the least. Between Scott’s sulking and Jackson’s goading, it hadn’t really been a pleasant experience for either of them. Okay, maybe teasing McCall into going full on feral in front of a diner full of mundanes had been a little bit out of line, but how was he supposed to know the kid was that sensitive? Honestly.  
  
It only occurred to him later that his approach had been kind of counterproductive, if he ever wanted to be free of the idiot. It had been fun, sure, but since Derek more than likely wanted to see an actual improvement in Scott’s grades before he was satisfied, he probably ought to take the whole thing a little more seriously from now on. Which would be a lot easier if McCall actually _showed up_.  
  
Fuck it. He’d waited long enough. He’d just get his strawberry milkshake and go.  
  
Just then, the bell on the door jangled as someone came in. He sat back in his seat, unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed. “What took you so long?”  
  
Scott flopped down into the seat opposite him, flinging his backpack to the ground carelessly. “I’ve never been here before. You might have given me directions…” he grumbled.  
  
Jackson snorted softly. “Where’s the fun in that?” In reality, it just hadn’t occurred to him that someone _wouldn’t_ know where McCreary’s was. Everyone he knew went to McCreary’s - it was one of the only places in town that served one hundred percent organic produce.  
  
“You boys ready to order?” their server said, voice bright, admirably hiding her irritation at having been made to wait so long.  
  
“Strawberry milkshake,” Jackson fired off immediately.  
  
“You do a chocolate cherry shake?” Scott asked hesitantly. After the incident the other day, Jackson wasn’t surprised. Just the smell of the chemical flavourings the mundane diner had used had been enough to turn his stomach.  
  
“We sure do, honey.” She smiled reassuringly, apparently noting Scott’s reluctance. “And don’t worry - it’s all natural here. It’ll taste fine.” She gave him a wink and went to give the kitchen their order.  
  
“How did she - ?”  
  
Jackson resisted the urge to roll his eyes, trying on that new resolve for patience. “It’s a Were diner.”  
  
“Oh.” The faint blush that went along with the word was oddly cute, and Jackson felt something in him soften, just a fraction. Not that he’d ever let it show.  
  
Jackson gave a deliberate, disdainful huff, pulling out his books with a disaffected air. “Come on. I haven’t got all day.”  
  
Scott grumbled, but complied, and they began to slowly sort through Scott’s problem areas (which were many), until the sun began to lower in the sky, and their shakes were sucked down to the dregs.  
  
Eventually, Jackson groaned, frustration getting the better of him, despite his best efforts. “Come _on_ , McCall. Don’t tell me they didn’t teach you this in the mundane school. It’s basic chemistry. They can’t be _that_ freaking incompetent.”  
  
Scott snorted through his nose, obviously equally frustrated. “First of all, I have a God damned name, you know. Would it actually kill you to use it?”  
  
Jackson rolled his eyes. “Fine then, Scott,” he said, putting emphasis on the name, like he was humouring a child. “Are you telling me they don’t teach you _anything_ Were related at the High School?”  
  
“Once you’re past the age of thirteen? No, not really. If you’re not likely to manifest they don’t bother. Honestly? It’s not something most regular humans give much thought to.”  
  
Jackson stared at Scott, eyebrow raised in scepticism. “You’re shitting me, right?”  
  
Scott shrugged, seeming discomfited. “I don’t think it’s something most people want to think about. It’s like it’s something that happens to other people.”  
  
“Like some kind of _disease_?” Jackson couldn’t help the shrill incredulity in his voice. He’d spent his whole life amongst other Weres. The idea that it mightn’t be seen as a gift to most was utterly foreign to him.  
  
Scott just looked away, uncomfortable, and shrugged.  
  
Well shit. This tutoring thing might be a hell of a lot harder than he’d thought. How the hell did you bring someone up to speed on a completely different style of education? Suddenly he thought he might be in way over his head.  
  
He sighed, and finally put his books away. “That’s enough for today, I guess.  Same place, Monday after school?” he suggested, pulling his backpack up onto his shoulder.  
  
Scott sighed back at him. “Sure.” He sounded about as pleased with the idea as Jackson did.  
  
They left McCreary’s with slumped shoulders and glum faces. Jackson’s already stellar mood improved tenfold when he got a look at the sprawling crowd of rowdy protestors stretching from the memorial fountain to the far side of the parking lot. When he squinted, he could make out the crusty hippie perched right on the hood of his Godamned Porsche.  
  
“Hey! Asshole! Get the fuck off my car!”  
  
Scott followed dutifully in his wake as he ran full tilt towards his baby, hoping and praying that the idiots hadn’t scratched his recently retouched paintjob.  
  
A flash of luminous silver blue eyes had the long-haired douchebag leaping off his poor abused car in short order, hands raised placatingly as he backed away. “Ease up, brother. You of all people ought to understand how important the movement is.”  
  
Jackson sniffed, then scoffed. Idiot human. “First off, I’m not your brother. Second, if I thought this was a battle worth fighting, I’d fight it myself. As it stands, you can take your anti-military bullshit and fuck off home with it.”  
  
The protestor rolled his eyes, giving Jackson a middle finger salute as he left. Jackson rolled his eyes right back, patting the hood of his car consolingly, as if the asshole’s mere presence had offended her non-existent sensibilities. Gratified that his paint job was intact, Jackson was left in a decidedly benevolent mood. “Hey, McCall - you want a ride home?”  
  
No answer. He looked around him, only to find no sign of Scott. Where the fuck had the little shit gone? He scanned the crowd half-heartedly, not caring much one way or the other how the other kid got home, to be perfectly frank. Until he actually saw the moron standing by the main booth, caught up in a seemingly earnest conversation with the leader of the protest group, pamphlet already in hand.  
  
Jackson’s jaw twitched of its own accord; face a perfect picture of irritation.  
  
He made his way through the crowd, reaching Scott with purposeful strides. He slapped a hand on Scott’s shoulder and pasted a sickly insincere smile on his face. He turned to the leader, noting the musky scent of wolf that rolled off him in waves, and the horrific burn scars that marred half of his face. The wolf in him quailed suddenly, whining in the back of his head to _back away, back away, back away!_ He pulled up his slipping smile hastily, tugging at Scott’s arm insistently. “I’m sure I’m interrupting a truly scintillating conversation here -” never let it be said that Jackson Whittemore’s sense of self preservation ever took precedence over his inner snarky bastard - “but Scott and I have a thing to get to, don’t we Scott?”  
  
Thankfully, Scott got the drift, seeming more pissed off than puzzled. He shrugged off Jackson’s hand and scowled irritably, but he didn’t refute Jackson’s claims. “Yeah. I forgot. Sorry about that Mr..?”  
  
The man smiled, the burn scars around his eye puckering with the motion. “Hale.” He smiled wider at Scott’s widened eyes, and the bobbing of Jackson’s Adam’s apple as he visibly swallowed. His eyes glinted with cold amusement.  
  
Jackson grabbed Scott by the wrist and yanked. “Yeah, that’s great, but we’ve got to go.”  
  
Just as Scott turned to follow, Hale pressed a card into the palm of his hand, curling Scott’s fingers around it. “Keep it. In case you change your mind.”  
  
Scott nodded absently to the man as Jackson dragged him along in his wake. He didn’t start complaining until Jackson had shoved him safely inside the Porsche and slammed the doors closed. “Mind telling me what the hell your problem is?” He rubbed at his wrist absently, soothing the fading reddened marks.  
  
Jackson’s expression was pure condescension. “You know, it’s actually kind of amazing how big a rock you’ve been living under your whole life, McCall. No really, I’m impressed -”  
  
“Fine, if you don’t want to tell me -” He reached for the door handle, and Jackson slapped his hand away.  
  
“The WACM are fucking nut jobs,” Jackson conceded finally, looking out the windscreen at the throng of people waving placards outside.  
  
Scott scoffed. “Just because you don’t agree with them -”  
  
“Not that I don’t think their whole ideology is stupid as fuck, but that’s not it. Seriously, you’ve never heard of all the rumours about those guys? That they’re under LAD surveillance? That ring any bells?”  
  
Scott looked doubtful. “Whatever.” He slumped down into his seat, sullen as any teenager ever was.  
  
“You know who that was, right?” Jackson continued, eyes tracking the burned man by the booth, wondering what the hell had happened to set a man like him on the path he’d seemingly chosen.  
  
“He said his name was Hale…”  
  
Jackson snorted. “Peter Hale. Derek’s uncle. They called him a war hero, after what happened in Afghanistan. No-one’s seen him in years. I wonder if Derek knows he’s here…”  
  
Scott followed Jackson’s gaze, looking at Hale thoughtfully. Jackson startled out of his near daze when Hale suddenly looked right at them, tipping his head and smiling faintly in an acknowledging gesture. Jackson suppressed a shiver, and started up the car, dismissing the whole thing from his mind.  
  
Later, with Scott dropped off at his rickety old home and Jackson’s karmic good deed of the year out of the way, he found his mind pulled back to Peter Hale’s predatory little smile, and the vague unease that had settled in his gut at the sight of it.  
  
He banished the whole mess from his thoughts with a faint shake of the head and a shiver. What Scott McCall did with his fool self was none of his concern, and he sure as shit had no intentions of ever crossing paths with that creepy fuck ever again. He had more pressing concerns at hand. He looked down at the candid picture he’d snapped of Allison Argent on his phone and smirked. Monday would be the day he got her number, even if it killed him.


	6. Chapter 6

Allison could almost feel the testosterone buffeting her like a physical force as she walked down the hallway, clutching her notebook to her like a barrier against all the eyes that tracked her every movement.   
  
She’d thought she was used to that feeling of scrutiny - being a scion of the notorious Argent clan tended to induce a general feeling of paranoia amongst her wolf-kin, after all - but it wasn’t her name that set her apart like that scarlet ‘A’ here; simply the fact that she was a woman. Something about the barely concealed hungriness of those eyes had her constantly on edge.   
  
She reminded herself of the importance of what her father hoped to achieve here, and forced herself not to grimace at the wolf eyeing her up and blocking her way to the seldom used women’s locker room. She couldn’t afford to alienate any of them right now; not until she found out where their allegiances lay. She moved past the creep with a carefully apologetic smile, and dropped it just as surely as she did her backpack when the door swung shut behind her.   
  
She tugged on her gym clothes and pulled her weapon from its case, feeling her uneasiness fade as the curve of her bow slid into the palm of her hand as easily as any glove. She never felt safer than when she had a bow in her hand. Nothing could touch her now.   
  
She walked outside with an easy grace that seemed to disrupt the throng of awaiting boys like a cat amongst the pigeons. Derek Hale rolled his eyes at them all and whistled sharply for their attention. He whapped the target beside him with one sharp claw when he had it.   
  
“Congratulations, kids. The government now deems you old enough for target practice. Since I can’t legally put an AK-47 in your hands, bows and arrows it is.”  
  
Most of the boys laughed, male posturing in full force with the promise of competition to come. Military involvement being what it was, consistent accuracy scores made up a pretty big percentage of the tally for the Distinction. Never mind that a bow and an assault rifle were worlds apart, as Allison could well attest.    
  
“Split yourselves into pairs,” Derek said, a vaguely irritated, disinterested look on his face. That was par for the course, as far as Allison could tell, so she took no notice 0f it. “One set of equipment per pair. Get to it,” Derek said, clapping his hands together.   
  
Suddenly everyone was looking at her, and she fought not to squirm. She glanced between them all frantically, trying to decide between the lesser of several unpleasant prospects. Jackson in particular was practically staring her down, eyes focused as a laser beam, intent as a fox before a chicken coop.   
  
“Scott,” she blurted before Jackson’s open mouth could ask her, making the boy in question look up in surprised bafflement.   
  
Scott was the only one that looked as nervous as she felt; the only one with too much on his own plate to pay her any undue attention. He was new too, and - if rumour was to be believed - usually barely a step away from sensory overload. She didn’t think he could be much of a threat if he tried.  
  
She looked at him with hopeful, pleading eyes. “You want to partner with me?”  
  
He practically shook himself, like he couldn’t believe it. “S-sure,” he replied, stuttering faintly, then ducked his head a little in embarrassment.   
  
Allison smiled warmly, suddenly more at ease than she had been since she stepped foot in this school, and lifted her own bow, moving towards him, ignoring every envious eye turned their way.   
  
The others paired up reluctantly, and turned their attention towards their own targets when Derek expressed his growing irritation with them all. Allison breathed a quiet sigh of relief, and turned a nervous smile on Scott, who stood before her with a bow clutched clumsily in one hand and an awkward expression on his face.   
  
She found herself smiling reassuringly. “Don’t worry - it’s not as hard as it looks.”  
  
“You’ve done this before?”  
  
“Sure,” she said, not able to help the cocky grin. “I’m nationally ranked. My old school’s produced the last three American gold medal winners.”  
  
Scott’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, offering a faint, self-deprecating quirk of his lips. “Just don’t laugh at me, alright?”  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied, grinning widely. “You want me to show you how?”  
  
“God, yes. I have no idea what I’m doing.”  
  
That was how she found herself pressed up against a strange boy’s back, hips canted next to his body, fingers near his elbow to guide his arm into the correct position, and wondering with the sick churn of guilt what Erica would make of this if she could see her now.   
  
Her smile faltered, and she made herself push Erica from her thoughts. This was important, even if it might not feel like it yet. People were dying, and anything she could do to help she would, no matter how seemingly small. Anyway, the sooner her father closed this case, the sooner they could all go back home.   
  
“Is this right?” Scott asked, breaking her from her thoughts.   
  
“That’s great,” she told him, not quite willing to bruise his fragile ego. “Now focus your breathing, take your aim, and let her fly.”  
  
He hit outer red, but at least it was a line breaker. A top ranked human archer probably would have had trouble making the shot at the kind of distance they were working at, but for a wolf there was definitely room for improvement. “Not bad for a first shot. We’ll get you into the yellow by day’s end.”  
  
Scott gave her a sunny smile and a thank you, and suddenly everything seemed a little less gloomy. He could be a good friend, she thought, if she let him. Too bad it would all be based on lies. Would it really be so bad, to pretend for a bit? Would he ever really need to know?   
  
“Come on, let’s get back to work,” she said, pulling his hips to hers, correcting his stance. There was something in his back pocket, poking out and catching on her shirt. She tugged it towards her without thinking while he was busy taking aim. Her breath stuttered in her chest momentarily when she caught sight of the printed title.   
  
“Yes!” Scott cried when his arrow found its mark, about an inch away from yellow. He turned back to her, the pleased grin slipping from his face when he saw what she held in her hand.   
  
“Sorry,” Allison said quickly. “It fell out of your pocket.” It amazed her a little, how easily the lie tripped from her tongue.   
  
Scott shrugged, watching her from beneath his lashes, as if awaiting judgement, suddenly sullen. “Well, aren’t you going to tell me how  stupid I am for even considering this shit?”  
  
Honestly, she wished she could. He seemed too sweet a kid to buy into the Werewolf Anti-Conscription Movement’s bullshit. She wished she could warn him how dangerous they were; how nothing good could come of it, but every instinct she had told her that this might be her ‘in.’ So she pushed her conscious to the side and told him, “Of course not. I don’t believe in mandatory conscription anyway.”   
  
Scott let out a sigh of relief. “It’s just that - I just want to be doing _something_ about it, you know?”  
  
She smiled, somewhat reassuring yet non-committal, letting him tell her what she needed to know.   
  
Scott looked in Jackson’s direction. The other boy had half a dozen arrows in the yellow rings - he’d obviously had some prior training. “He says they’re extremists. I don’t know. All I saw was a protest. One of them invited me to a group meeting. I mean, what harm could it do to look, right?”  
  
“I guess,” Allison said, shrugging, hoping her wide eyes didn’t give her away.   
  
“You want to come with me?” Scott said suddenly, surprising Allison so much she sputtered a bit.   
  
“No, that’s - I mean, I can’t…”  
  
“Why not?” He turned a pair of dark brown, infinitely disappointed puppy eyes on her.   
  
God, she’d wanted to be able to keep this to herself for just a little longer. No-one ever looked at her the same after they found out. She sighed. Well, it would come out sooner or later. It always did. “My dad’s an LAD agent. They wouldn’t want me there.”  
  
Even Scott, apparently unversed in were culture as he was, knew enough to let out a tiny, surprised intake of breath. She could see something start to close off behind his eyes, making him unreadable.   
  
“He’s not some kind of bigot,” Allison was quick to reassure, desperate to cement over the instant fissures between them. “I know what kind of reputation they have.” Well deserved, in many cases, she thought to herself grimly. “My dad’s not like that. He’s just doing his job.”  
  
Allison grew hopeful at the tentative smile that pulled Scott’s lip upward at the corner. “I guess someone has to do it.”  
  
Allison couldn’t help the sigh of relief, and Scott turned a shrewd glance on her. “Most people don’t take it so well, do they?”  
  
Allison let out a caustic little laugh, lifting her composite, nocking her arrow and aiming with quiet precision. “Nope. Not so much.” She breathed for a moment, letting herself find her focus before she let her arrow loose. It hit dead centre.   
  
After a while, Scott broke the tense silence. “Since you can’t go to the meeting, I could let you know how it went? If you’re interested, that is.”  
  
Everything was just falling right into her lap, and giddy, half hysterical laughter bubbled up in Allison’s chest. She suppressed it ruthlessly, and turned a sweet smile on Scott. “That would be really nice of you.”   
  
She thought of Erica back home as she touched Scott’s wrist for emphasis; injecting just a hint of flirtatiousness into her smile. She hoped to hell her father was grateful for this.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that took longer than expected. Sorry about that. I'm also sorry if any of the procedures mentioned in the following chapter are horribly unrealistic. I try to research as well as I'm able, but when it comes right down to it I'm pretty much talking out of my ass. I hope it doesn't show, lol.

Stiles watched one of his dad’s deputies with one eye as she canvassed the area in front of the outwardly nondescript government building, listening intently to the radio chatter as he slouched in the front seat of his dad’s patrol car, slurping a milkshake. There’d been a break in at the recruitment office, and, lacking anything better to do, Stiles and Scott had tagged along.   
  
Beside him, Scott scrunched his nose in distaste. “How can you drink that?” he said, indicating Stiles’ creamy vanilla shake. “I can practically taste the preservatives from over here.”  
  
Stiles rolled his eyes. “I like my E-numbers, thank you very much. They give me life, man, alright?” He thought for a second, then frowned to himself. “I thought you could tune down the super senses now?”  
  
Scott rolled his eyes right back. “Not when someone specifically asks me to see if I can scope out a crime scene.” The ‘you dope’ was silent, but implied as he continued to eye the humungous cup of dubious content cradled sacredly in Stiles hands. His ‘you are disappointing me’ face was even worse than the puppy eyes, if Stiles were to be honest with himself.   
  
Stiles sighed, put upon, but chucked the half empty cup out the rolled down window, not particularly caring in that instant about litter laws. “Happy?”  
  
Scott flashed a smile. “Ecstatic,” he replied, deadpan, and thumbed the pamphlet in his hand for the twentieth time that night. It was yellowed and worn from sweaty palms and over-creasing, but he held it up like a talisman; like its words might somehow protect him from an uncertain, unknowable future.   
  
Stiles repressed a sigh. So apparently Scott was seriously considering this. Now how to broach this subject without sounding like an insensitive dick?  
  
“You know there are protest groups that _aren’t_ batshit insane, right? Ones that don’t have Federal investigations pending?”   
  
Okay, so tact wasn’t Stiles’ strong point. He ducked and braced himself for a slap upside the head, then looked up from under his lashes tentatively when it didn’t come.   
  
Scott was staring blankly down at the paper in his hands. Stiles knew that lack of expression like the back of his hand, and he hated it.   
  
Fuck. Pissed off he could handle, but forlorn? Forlorn could just fuck right off. He’d seen enough of it on Scott’s face over the last few years to last a lifetime. If false hope and a bunch of whack jobs were what it took to settle that low level panic that had took hold of his best friend since he’d manifested then God damn it, he could be supportive. It wasn’t like anything was actually proven against them anyway, right?   
  
Stiles rubbed a hand over his face, puffing out a breath. “Well I guess there’s no harm in checking them out?” So maybe it came out more uncertain than he’d intended, but hey, he was trying.   
  
Before Scott even had the chance to roll his eyes at the half-assed endorsement, the radio sprang to life, spewing forth the one code Stiles apparently hadn’t memorized.   
  
Something about a bomb scare? Suspicious device found? Something like that. Maybe. Actually, that was pretty cool. Beacon Hills might have been one of the West Coast’s biggest werewolf Meccas, but other than the occasional mauling or skirmish with the ever present protestors that liked to camp out by the military base on the outskirts of town, generally making themselves a pain in his dad’s behind -  
  
Shit! His dad was in there.   
  
He turned to Scott, fighting a surge of panic. “Can you smell explosives?”  
  
Scott’s eyes widened to comical proportions. “Are you saying there’s a bomb in there?”  
  
“I’m saying I don’t know the radio code for whatever the hell they’re talking about, but it doesn’t sound good!”  
  
Scott’s eyes flickered as he visibly thought it over. “Well they haven’t called the bomb squad, have they?”  
  
Stiles slumped back in his seat with a relieved gust of breath. “Yeah, you’re right -”  
  
A squeal of tires announced the arrival of the LAD in their black jeeps. They descended on the crime scene like a swarm of uber-competent worker ants, all mirrored shades and complete lack of expression as they barked into walkie-talkies and cell phones, surveying the area. The sight didn’t exactly do much to ease the sudden queasiness in the pit of Stiles’ stomach.   
  
Before he could even think, he’d opened his door and marched right up to the lead investigator, a spluttering and exasperated Scott on his heels.   
  
“Stiles Stilinski,” he said in a voice ten times more confident than he felt. “My dad’s the sheriff, and he’s in there right now. What the hell is going on?”  
  
The LAD agent lowered his cell phone, bemused at the teenager who’d accosted him. He passed a hand over his stubbled chin, raising his pale eyes to the heavens as if to ask for mercy, before looking Stiles right in the eyes, expression stern. “You really shouldn’t be here.”  
  
Stiles repressed the grunt of frustration that wanted to escape him. “But I am. And my dad’s still inside.”  
  
The agent sighed, passing his eyes over Scott briefly, who was standing right behind Stiles, trying to look authoritative and apparently failing miserably. “Alright. I’ll see if I can -”  
  
“Dad!” Stiles yelled, turning to the figure hurrying down the stairs, accompanied by his panicked looking deputies.   
  
“Not now Stiles!” his dad said sharply. “And get back, you two! I thought I told you not to get out of the car?”  
  
“Sheriff Stilinski?” the LAD agent said suddenly, interrupting his dad’s imminent and ill-timed rant.   
  
“That’s me,” he replied, somewhat cagily. “Who am I talking to?”  
  
“Chris Argent, LAD,” the agent replied smoothly, flashing his fancy badge. “We got a call for suspected Were involvement. What are we dealing with here?”  
  
His dad nodded tersely. “We got called in for a routine break in. We found a suspicious device in the administrator’s office. We’re worried we’ve got a bomb on our hands.”  
  
“We cleared?”  
  
“The building’s cleared. Deputy Chavez is securing the perimeter,” his dad said, indicating Maria, who was currently winding police tape around the temporary barriers she’d put up at a safe distance. Somehow that seemed to make it more real for Stiles. A bomb might go off in there. At any time. Suddenly he felt the overwhelming need to be elsewhere. He looked at his dad, pleading.   
  
“Good work, Sheriff,” Argent said, distracting his dad before he could say anything, smiling calmingly, seeming so in control that it suddenly seemed almost silly to worry so much. “We’ve got an EOD expert en route, ETA two minutes. Why don’t you all back off to a nice safe distance - we’ve got this under control.”  
  
So they did, eyes glued to the scene, even as Stiles’ dad still attempted to grumble at him about never doing as he was told, until a black Camaro pulled up in a squeal of tyres, dislodging one seriously pissed off Derek Hale from its comfy bucket seats.   
  
“What the hell, Argent?” he barked angrily at the LAD agent, getting right up in his face. “You’re only supposed to call me when it’s an emergency -”  
  
“It is,” Argent said tersely, “and you’re the most qualified bomb disposal expert in my contacts list.”  
  
The blue animal shine of Derek’s eyes glittered in the dark as he growled lowly, seemingly without conscious thought, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. “You got gear for me?”  
  
Argent gave a self-satisfied, cool smile, and nodded to the back of his the next vehicle over, at which a technician was pulling out an array of heavy protective gear. “You out of practice, Hale?” he said teasingly.   
  
“A Devil Dog doesn’t gather dust, agent. Once a Marine, always a Marine,” Derek replied testily, frowning openly as his eyes passed over Scott in the background, who did his best to disappear behind Stiles. Apparently deciding to ignore Scott for more pressing matters, he then shrugged into the heavy vest with well-practiced ease, slipping the comm into place and shoving the helmet down over his head. Within two minutes he was ready to walk into a potential explosion, and did, walking as easily as he could in all that gear through the open doorway, quickly disappearing from view.   
  
Twitching with pent up nerves, Stiles bounced on the balls of his feet, as if it would help him see Derek around a corner. “I thought Derek was a Recon Marine?” he asked Scott, as much to take his mind off the fact that the building might go kablooey any second now as out of genuine curiosity. “Or is he kind of a wolf of all trades?”  
  
Surprisingly, Argent answered him. “The Devil Dogs usually try to have at least one explosives expert in each platoon, if not each team. Weres who show an aptitude for it get dual training.”  
  
Scott nodded. “My dad always said the Hales were the best of the best when it came to bomb disposal. He said Laura was amazing. She never made a mistake -” he broke off abruptly there, shuffling uncomfortably, because, well, that wasn’t quite true. Laura Hale had fucked up exactly once in her entire career, and she’d paid the price with her life. They’d had to piece her together for the funeral.   
  
Stiles swallowed, even more anxious than before. He noticed an LAD agent talking into a walkie talkie, staring intently at the building, expression steady and determined. Stiles pulled Scott to one side, leaning in close. “Can you hear what’s going on?” he whispered.   
  
Scott’s face scrunched up in concentration, eyes going unfocused as he concentrated on what was being said. “Derek’s found it. He’s disabling the timer now.” They both breathed a sigh of relief.   
  
After a few moments Derek’s helmeted form appeared in the doorway, waving the deactivated device for all to see.   
  
“Anyone else think that was a little anticlimactic?” Stiles said without thought, ducking when his dad whapped him on the back of the head. “Hey! I was just say-”  
  
He was cut off abruptly when a explosion rocked the building, a fiery ball of light and fury erupting from behind Derek with a deafening roar, hurling the Were down the staircase with the force of the blast.   
  
When the world had righted itself again Stiles’ ears were ringing. It was fucking pandemonium, with people running around yelling things he couldn’t quite hear. Scott was pulling a stunned but intact Derek away towards the LAD vehicles, an arm slung around his shoulders. Blood trailed from Scott’s ruptured eardrums and trickled off his chin.   
  
Stiles stepped over far-flung broken glass, his dad on his tail, as he made his way to where an LAD agent was hastily removing Derek’s gear and checking him over. “What the hell happened?” he asked, completely unaware that he was shouting. “I thought you disabled it?”  
  
“I did. There must have been a secondary device hidden somewhere,” Derek explained, rubbing at his ears. “Christ, you never get used to that.”  
  
Chris Argent leaned in, face radiating concern and urgency. “Can you tell us anything?”  
  
Derek finally shrugged off Scott’s supporting arm, turning the younger Were’s head to the side to examine the blood, tsking softly. Paternal fussing done, he then turned to Argent. “The first device was obvious: in plain sight, reeking of the common explosive materials in current use, simply made but elegant. A distraction. The second was well hidden, had a seriously unobtrusive scent, and was obviously triggered to explode after the first was disabled. It was made by someone who knows the scents a Were is trained with. Someone who knows their shit.”  
  
Argent sighed. “WACM?”   
  
“Can you think of anyone else with the motivation and the skillset? I mean I guess it could be a lone wolf, so to speak, but what are the odds?”  
  
Argent shrugged faintly. “Point taken. Anything else?”  
  
Derek looked thoughtful for a moment. “I think this was just a warning.”  
  
Stiles’ dad looked from the Were to the still smoking building incredulously. Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed, making its way towards them. “You call this a warning?”  
  
“Yeah, I do,” Derek replied levelly. “Someone this skilled could have levelled the building if they’d wanted to. As it was this was mostly blowback and broken glass. The device was well placed for what it was intended to do.”  
  
If this was a warning, Stiles didn’t want to know what it looked like when they meant business.   
  
Derek continued getting out of his gear, and the rest of them stood around in stony, contemplative silence. Stiles started when a hand thumped down on his shoulder.   
  
“Come on kiddo, I think we ought to take Scott home to his mom, see if she can’t do anything about the…” the trailed off, grimacing and gesturing to his own ears.   
  
“Huh?” Scott asked, face screwed up in concentration as he tried to lip read. Stiles didn’t think he’d heard a single word of what they’d been talking about.  
  
“We’re going to get you home, son,” his dad repeated, louder for Scott’s benefit. He turned questioningly to the Lycanthropic Activity Department agents. “That is, if I’m not needed for anything?”  
  
Argent smiled tightly. “I think we can take it from here.”  
  
As the three of them piled into his dad’s squad car, Stiles suddenly realised he was trembling. That had been close. Derek might have been blown to kingdom come. His _dad_ might have been blown to kingdom come. And these were the crazy fucks Scott had almost got involved with. He looked at his dad, and he looked at Scott, both safe and alive, even if somewhat obviously rattled, and let himself breathe a huge sigh of relief.   
  
The only sticking point, in his estimation, was the fact that the crazy people had already shown an interest in Scott. Well then he’d just have to keep Scott far, far away from any and all anarchic lunatics for the foreseeable future. How hard could it be?   
  
Those were famous last words, as it would turn out.   
  



End file.
